


Chuck vs. the Chickens

by Rivestra



Series: Chef!Casey 'Verse [2]
Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Chef!Casey, Cooking, M/M, The Intersect has many uses, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivestra/pseuds/Rivestra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck yanked the cleaver free and brought it down again, this time letting out a loud, "Aaaa-yah!" hoping to intimidate the bird into dismembering itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chuck vs. the Chickens

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes:** This totally stands alone but it is technically in the same universe as my snippet _[Watching Firefly](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7906561)_. I blame [daria234](http://daria234.livejournal.com) completely for the fact that I now have a Chef Casey 'verse. Watch out for that one, she's sneaky. Many, many thanks to the incomparable [snarkgoddess](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkGoddess/pseuds/SnarkGoddess) for the speedy beta. Blame her for any grammatical consistencies you found in this fic.
> 
> This was first published on LJ, June 11th, 2010. I'm still perplexed about how I managed to miss cross-posting it here. It's hardly the only one I missed, though.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Written purely for fun; no profit or harm intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.

Nine naked chickens sat in front of Chuck, taunting him. They glared at him in challenge, despite their total lack of eyes. They mocked him, laughter echoing out of the hole where their necks had been. Plucked and theoretically powerless, the tenth one of their number was splayed out beneath his blade, waiting for his next move. 

Wincing, Chuck brought the blade down, eyes closing as it impacted with bone yet again. He yanked the cleaver free and brought it down again, this time letting out a loud, "Aaaa-yah!" hoping to intimidate the bird into dismembering itself.

It worked, sort of; the leg bone gave way with a sickening crunch, shattering mid-length and no longer looking anything like a drumstick at all. Chuck called out, "Aieeeeeeeee!" and slammed the heavy cleaver down, hoping to hit closer to the thigh joint this time. It didn't work, so he slammed it down again, over and over, not stopping until he could no longer pull the knife free. 

When he finally opened his eyes, Chuck found the cutting board (and the floor) littered with random chunks of chicken, mostly from the breast. His cleaver was cleverly embedded in the backbone, clearly having decided to side with the chickens. 

Chuck sighed loudly. 

One of the other chickens chuckled deridingly off to his left, and Chuck whirled to threaten it with his cleaver. The effect _would_ have largely been ruined by the hacked chicken dangling, rubber-like, from his blade, but Chuck didn't need to go that far into Vaudeville for his humiliation today. Agent Casey (still chuckling) caught him mid-spin.

The chicken popped free, and the traitorous blade clattered to the floor. Chuck abruptly found himself staring at the remains of the chicken on the counter from less than an inch away. Casey's hands were huge and hot on his neck and arm.

"What the hell are you trying to do here, Bartowski?" Casey's nose wrinkled and he let Chuck up with an unveiled air of disgust. "Trying to make some kind of bone-in ground chicken?" 

"Casey!" Chuck did not yelp.

Much.

Casey scooped the knife and mutilated chicken up off the floor. He plopped the bird unceremoniously down in front of Chuck and leaned over the counter to set the knife much further away, then turned to stare at Chuck over crossed arms. 

"What," Casey slapped Chuck's hand away from the knife, "are you trying to do?"

Chuck heard himself say, "Ellie needs…" but then he made the mistake of reaching for the knife again, so all he really remembered was Casey introducing his face to the counter again.

"Without the blade, Bartowski." 

Casey didn't let him up this time until he'd ground out, "I promised Ellie I'd cut up the chickens for her big Resident's Day dinner at the hospital," into the Formica.

"Your sister the _surgeon_ thought it would be a good idea to ask you to dismember a bunch of chickens?" Chuck was insulted even before Casey added, "Chickens people are supposed to _eat?"_

"Hey! I can cook!" Backpedaling away from the look on John's face, Chuck quickly added, "Some things! Reheat them, for sure. I make a mean rice crispy treat, and…" He trailed off when his back hit the wall, Casey's looming bulk effectively blocking every direction Chuck might have chosen to flee in.

"Come 'ere, idiot." Casey grabbed his wrist and pulled him back to the counter, crowding him against it. With a sweep of his arm, Casey shoved the hacked up bird away and grabbed two fresh ones from the bunch still cowering together nearby. The birds had no sooner landed in front of them when Chuck yelped – yes, again – this time due to Casey's stealthy administration of a Vulcan Wrist Pinch. "Try this one. Moron." 

The wooden handle of a smaller knife landed in Chuck's open palm, and he stared blankly at it. Casey's own blade waved in front of Chuck's face, catching his attention and drawing it back down to the chickens.

"Look," the tip of Casey's knife pierced the skin of the bird, slicing cleanly down between the leg and thigh bone. "You just have to feel for the joint. It's easy." He squinted pointedly at Chuck. "Even an idiot can do this."

Attempting to follow Casey's example, Chuck felt for the joint. He circled his left thumb around and got a good grip on the indentation the joint made before bringing his knife down forcefully. 

Casey's grip on his wrist was sudden and bruising. Red swam in to fill Chuck's vision and Casey's knife clattered to the counter. 

Wait. 

Casey dropped his knife?

Chuck shook his head and stared at the red pooling on the counter until Casey dragged him away. Butchered chickens don't bleed, do they?

The water stung, but Casey kept his hand under the wide-open faucet. This time, Chuck's yelp was more like a scream. He'd've been embarrassed, but the dish soap burned _like fire,_ and Casey rubbed it in deep before washing it away and wrapping Chuck's hand tightly in a clean dishtowel.

Chuck didn't think he was ever going to feel his fingers again, but he was not going to complain. Not with Casey wearing _that_ look on his face.

He glowered at Chuck for a few more minutes (daring him to open his mouth) then unwrapped the towel. Casey grunted softly at the slowly seeping blood before winding the towel back around Chuck's hand. At least Chuck could flex his fingers this time, even if Casey did smack them when he tried.

Mumbling, Casey shook his head and said to himself, "Enough. It has to be in there somewhere." He grabbed Chuck and spun him toward the counter, coming in close behind him.

Chuck froze. 

Casey chuckled. "Relax, Bartowski." He moved impossibly closer, squeezing Chuck's shoulders before sliding his fingers down Chuck's forearms until they came to rest over the pounding pulse-point in Chuck's wrists, warm and heavy and solid. 

Chuck would later deny it, but he shuddered. 

Casey's laughter was hot against his neck. "Just… relax. It's got to be in that brain of yours somewhere. There's no way they figured you needed to know which fork to use on an old-school Czechoslovakian beet salad but not how to butcher a chicken." Casey slid the knife into Chuck's right hand, keeping his injured left back and out of any potential action. 

Chuck closed his grip over the wooden handle and tried to ignore (unsuccessfully) the way Casey's fingers shifted against his pulse when he moved. He was even less successful at ignoring the long line of John Casey's chest against his spine. Relaxing was not what he would have called feeling the air move in and out of Casey's lungs, or the soft rush of Casey's breath against the flushed skin just below his ear.

Chuck drew in a deep breath (it only stuttered a little) and tried to focus on the chicken in front of him. He tried to pretend that this chicken possessed important national secrets that could be freed only if he, Chuck Bartowski, managed to cut it into appropriate pieces. Casey shifted behind him, bringing his thigh in line with Chuck's own. Chuck blinked, the air in his lungs suddenly warm and heavy, but he decidedly did not flash. 

Chuck shifted, trying to give himself a little room, but John followed him closer to the counter. Chuck's thoughts were slow, but his heart was hammering. Uh… maybe it was a terrorist chicken? Intent on causing mass poultry peril by spreading a particularly virulent salmonella through its fellow belligerent barnyard birds…

Casey's low, "Relax. This isn't rocket science," surprised a rush of coarse laughter out of Chuck. 

John ignored Chuck's, "Yeah, not really helping there, Colonel Yee," and pushed Chuck's bad hand down to the counter, giving it a little pat as if to say, _stay,_ before moving up to grip the chicken. 

Right into Chuck's ear, Casey whispered, "Like this," and guided the knife in Chuck's hand down to the leg joint and through it. The snick of steel though bone jolted something loose in Chuck's mind, and they made the next cut together, effortlessly freeing the thigh from the rest of the bird. 

Chuck's breath was steady, and his hands were sure as they removed the other leg and separated it from the thigh. John let go when Chuck moved to cut the breast free of the backbone, shifting closer still to lean in and watch. Chuck jumped a little when John's half-hard cock settled in against his ass, but this time he didn't yelp. (The sound was a lot more like a pathetic [and doomed] moan.)

He had what he needed by then, getting rid of the backbone and the ribs without really thinking about anything other than Casey behind him, but the flash kept coming. Images of chickens and other animals flooded through Chuck when he reached for the next bird. He would have been okay if it had stopped there, but it didn't – the knives got bigger, the feeling of the flesh parting beneath his hands became increasingly visceral and, the screams became more and more articulate with each moment. 

He swayed, away from the damn chicken and back into Casey, fighting to keep his breath controlled. Casey pulled the knife from his hand and steadied Chuck, his, "Let it go, Bartowski," surprisingly even and un-mocking. The images wouldn't let go, though, flashing faster and more vividly though Chuck's mind, the motions themselves slow and controlled, showing him clearly how to miss major arteries and organs, how to draw it out so it could go on and on…

"Bartowski!" Casey gave him a little shake and turned him around, still trapping him tight to the counter. " You've got to let this go, Bartowski." Chuck's head snapped up, eyes unseeing until they locked onto John's. "Find something else to focus on."

And just like that, Chuck _did._ He didn't think at all; he simply brought his hands up to cup Casey's face, leaned in and kissed him with all the focus he possessed.

Which, it turned out, was a lot. By the time he was done, all Casey could (apparently) do was stare, slack-jawed.

Well, for a moment, anyway. Then a slow grin spread across his face, and he said, "Yeah, that'll work," and pulled Chuck back in close from toes to tongue. After that, things became a bit of a blur. There was scrambling (arms and legs, not eggs) and cloth ripping (Chuck's shirt clearly had too many buttons) and both of them collapsing to the floor (Casey landing on top of Chuck, of course). There was rubbing (hard and fast and so much both of them) and scratching (you'd think a trained assassin would trim his nails), a lot of kissing (deep and soulful and a little wild, then hard and fast and possessive as hell), no small amount of biting (unintentional [at first], and who knew _John Casey_ could turn that color) and a fair amount of gently soothing it better (even if that would later be denied). 

There was even a bit of screaming, and (for once) it wasn't even Chuck. That was hardly his fault, no matter how prettily John pouted. John really should have realized that the intersect had a lot more useful things to teach Chuck than how to cut up a chicken.


End file.
